Frock Coated Fascination
by thekezzasaurus
Summary: Set in the 18th Century, John is forced to attend a ball where he meets the lovely Sarah Sawyer. Everything is going well, his family are pleased and he believes he has everything in place where love is concerned, that is until he meets William Sherlock Scott Holmes...
1. Chapter 1

Frock Coats – a Johnlock fanfic

As he stood at the mirror, short yet nimble fingers adjusting a lace cravat, a slow sigh escaped John's lips. It's not that he didn't enjoy endless hours of contradanse and the ever present stench of the concoction of perfumes in the air – oh wait, he despised every minute of it. He'd always hated attending formal dances, especially ones as high-profile as this. Hundreds of overdressed ladies, each surreptitiously competing for titles like "smallest waist" and "palest face". Lord knows how women managed to lace themselves so tightly into those constricting pieces of clothing (although they were slimming, it must also be hard to breathe in them…). That's partly why he had never courted, in his opinion they were all incredibly shallow.

"John!" came a shout from downstairs, jerking him out of his reverie.

"Coming, mother!" he called back, quickly re-straightening the cravat and shrugging on the ornately embroidered pale green frock coat that had been laid out for him. Taking a moment to admire his mother's choice of clothes, he headed downstairs where his parents were anxiously waiting for him, his mother in a duck egg blue floral gown with enormous open skirts and his father wearing a waistcoat in a colour matching his mother's dress but trimmed with gold brocade and topped with an equally elaborate frock coat.

"The carriage is outside," his mother said, her slightly irritated tone betraying her current stress level. So together they made their way to the carriage, John falling behind, deliberately taking his time. Soon, they were on the pavement and ducking into the black upholstered carriage, the three of them sitting stiffly on the plush seats. It was a long drive to Marlborough Park.

Their carriage turned into the long driveway and John couldn't help but stare at the sheer size of the place. Ivy covered the stone walls beautifully and as the horses halted, John almost tripped because his eyes were fixed on taking in the towers that stood so tall, placed at brief intervals around the circumference of the house. Well, mansion, really. John definitely had to concentrate in order to tear his gaze away and focus on his feet, consequently directing them towards the doors being held open by smartly dressed footmen.

Upon being relieved of their coats, they made their way into the bustling ballroom, a small orchestra serenading the guests as they arrived. The room was already filling fast and as John tried to navigate a way through the sea of white skirts he was presented with, a loud snide voice was heard from behind him.

"Ah, Mr and Mrs Watson." The amusement was evident in the tone of voice, as if suggesting they didn't quite fit in.

"Oh, hello Mr Bishop," said John's father awkwardly, bowing and shaking the other man's hand whilst his wife curtsied. "Mrs Bishop," he bowed again to kiss her hand, followed by another curtsy from John's mother.

"And this must be your son, John," Mrs Bishop said with practised interest. "My, how you've grown."

"Indeed, ma'am," John replied, shuffling his feet.

"Yes, well," her eyes bored into his like a hawk sizing up its next catch as they raked over him. "Why don't you find yourself a partner, John? I believe the minuet will be starting shortly." John bowed low and scurried off into the crowd, eager to get away from the sharp eyes of Priscilla Bishop.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he found a clearing in the forest of nobility. But as the orchestra shifted seamlessly from overture to minuet, John was approached by a gaggle of giggling young women, dressed in simple dresses, rather than the favoured embroidered corsets and puffed sleeves.

Finally, after a considerable amount of blushing and whispering, a red headed girl stepped forward, looking determinedly at the polished floor. She only began to stammer when John looked up expectantly.

"Er, my- my friend was wondering if you'd dance with her," she rushed, gesturing to a brown haired girl in the centre of the group. Reluctantly, John greed and offered his arm to the girl, who took it delightedly, shooting a big grin over her shoulder as John lead her onto the dance floor.

"I'm Sarah," she said, "Sarah Sawyer."

"John," he replied, "John Watson."

And so they began the minuet, his two left feet following her graceful steps, trying his best not to be a burden. It was only when the music finally slowed to a halt that he properly looked at her. She was indeed beautiful, with pure, unmarked skin, and eyes that sparkled like gems in a glass vase.

"Would you care to join me for the next dance?" he asked politely, smiling as she accepted with a curtsy.

"It would be my pleasure."

_3 months later_

John sat, anxiously shuffling his feet, listening to the snorts of the horses and looking at the hands he was wringing in his lap. But as the carriage door was opened, and a slim figure dressed in pale pink stepped into the interior, he raised his head smiling.

"Miss Sawyer," he greeted her, leaning forward to kiss her dainty, pale hand.

"Hello again, Mr Watson," she replied, a hint of red in her cheeks.

They made polite conversation for the duration of the journey, sometimes lapsing into comfortable silence to take advantage of the country view from the carriage window. Although darkness was slowly descending, the landscape was still every bit as beautiful, even with a tinge of grey.

When the looming silhouette if Brackley Manor appeared at the window, John's breath caught in his throat. It stood like a proud, majestic lion against its countryside backdrop, imposing yet welcoming, not too macabre but not the slightest bit bright in appearance. It really was a masterpiece. The building itself was beautiful, ornate carvings and gargoyles decorating the dark stone walls, tall windows grouped in threes with true balconies supported by chiselled plinths. The perfect structure to follow the neo-gothic architectural revival of the time.

As the carriage drew closer and closer, John raked his eyes over the towering structure, each time noticing a new detail that fascinated him as equally as the last. They gradually approached the large, wrought iron gates and after passing through, the coachman halted the horses at the back of the line of carriages that had formed along the horizontal path in front of the grand entrance to the building.

John stepped out first, holding out a hand to help down Sarah and nodding his silent thanks to the sombre man sat atop the ledge that jutted out of the front of the carriage. The pair made their way to the doors in a quiet fashion, the small hand of the lady gripping the elbow of the gentleman tightly.

The entrance hall of Brackley Manor was, in reality, a glorified ballroom. At the back of the room, a uniformed orchestra played a slow but jovial melody whilst hundreds of fashionably dressed aristocrats milled about, serving men bearing trays of delicacies scattered amongst them. So after the footmen had dutifully relieved them of their coats and other various sundries, John Watson and Sarah Sawyer began to weave their way through the ever thickening crowd.

As the two got closer to the far side of the room, Sarah began to pull his elbow earnestly, explaining that she'd seen her cousins when he shot a questioning look at her. "Cousin Sarah!" they chorused, faces flushed. "So this is the lucky man, eh!" when they caught sight of John.

"Oh, yes! John, these are my cousins, Sally, Molly, Irene and Marie," Sarah pointed to each one as she said a name, "and girls, this is John Watson." A series of greetings and wolf whistles followed but Sarah needn't have looked at the floor blushing as no one could hear them over the noise of the hustle and bustle of the hall.

"Well, er," interrupted John awkwardly, "I'm going to find some drinks. Sarah?" he asked, looking at her expectantly.

"Oh, yes please!" she replied excitedly. John turned to Sarah's cousins also but they politely refused, saying they'd already had quite a bit to drink.

As John turned away, something caught his eye. A tall, curly haired man with prominent cheekbones was leaning gracefully against one of the marble pillars that lined the hall, bright blue eyes analysing each person present, rather like a machine. John only realised he was staring when the dark man looked into his eyes intently, a spark of interest behind the other man's inquisitive gaze.

The smaller man was shocked out of his trance at this and stumbled backwards, into the slight figure of a serving man laden with a tray of drinks. John stammered out several apologies before taking two of the drinks when the poor man had regained his balance.

Sauntering back to the group of girls, pretending as if nothing had happened, John placed a glass into Sarah's hand, smiling at the thankful look she gave him. But before he could raise his own glass to his lips, the energetic blonde had reclaimed his elbow and was practically dragging him out for the first dance. Luckily, he'd managed to palm off his full glass onto a bemused Irene Adler before he was pulled too far.

However, as they began the minuet, John's eyes flitted across a familiar face. A familiar, blue eyed face with sharp cheekbones. But this time John's curiosity got the better of him so he leaned in a fraction and whispered to Sarah over the music. "Do you know who that is?" he asked, eyes obviously flicking from the tall figure to Sarah. When she finally caught on, she looked closely and after a few moments in thought, she gasped with realisation.

"That's William Holmes," she breathed, as if in awe, "the heir to this estate. Still a bachelor, and a wealthy one at that!" This peaked John's interest.

"How has he managed that? Wealthy _and _a bachelor? Surely he's had something arranged by now, at least!"

"I have no idea," Sarah replied in hushed tones.

It was like that for the rest of the ball, really. John could not keep his eyes off this 'William Holmes', as if there was a piece still missing and he needed to find it to complete the puzzle. As the guests gradually started to disappear and John and Sarah were back in their carriage, the slender, frock coated image of Holmes was constantly invading his thoughts.


	2. Chapter 2

The tiny pieces of gravel crunched under their feet as they walked arm in arm through the hedged gardens, occasionally stopping so the lady could admire the colourful foliage. They chattered pleasantly every so often, an amicable balance between silence and conversation. _She really would be the perfect wife,_ he thought as he looked at her mousy-brown curls and dainty features.

She wasn't unattractive and her polite countenance and kind heart made her easy to like and talk to. They rarely disagreed and she was wealthy – it was at times like this that John looked incredulously at the lady beside him, wondering how he'd gotten so lucky in love without even trying.

* * *

><p>A loud series of knocks jerked John awake and the sizeable tome on his lap fell from its carefully balanced position to the floor. Reluctantly, he stood stiffly and went to the door, behind which was Stevens, their slightly decrepit butler. John had been told that his family had been under the employ of the Watsons for generations, but as family's wealth dwindled so did their staff so now they could only barely afford a few cooks and their butler.<p>

"Your father wishes to see you in his study, Master Watson," he said in his reedy tenor voice. John thanked him, retrieved 'The London Medical Journal' from the place where it had fallen and marked his page, placing it carefully back onto his hardwood desk. Then straightening his shirt, he navigated his way along the portrait-lined corridor, at the end of which was his father's study. A few moments after knocking on the ominous, oak doors in front of him, a deep voice granted him entry so he pushed open the double doors and stepped into the study of Samuel Watson.

Dark wooden bookshelves lined the walls and although the room wasn't big in size, it seems spacious due to the fact that besides the bookshelves and a large, mahogany desk and captain's chair at the back of the room, it was completely devoid of other furniture. Behind the desk sat a middle-aged, greying man with a slight beard and handlebar moustache.

"You wanted to see me, Father?" John asked, striding to the back of the room and sitting down in one of the two leather seated, high backed chairs situated in front of the portly man in the captain's chair.

"Ah, John. Thank you for coming." The senior Watson plucked a sheaf of paper from the top of one of the growing piles to either side of him. "Earlier today, I received a letter from Mr Siger Holmes, containing details of a business proposition he wishes to negotiate with me."

"What would somebody like Siger Holmes want with sugar?" John inquired, questions quickly forming in his head.

"I don't know, John, but I do know that this proposition includes a vast amount of money on my part. You know what that means, yes?"

"Yes?"

"It means that we could begin regaining all of the money that your great grandfather lost us!" Samuel explained, voice rising with excitement that John hadn't seen since…yes then. But they didn't talk about that. John sat with wide eyes, listening to his father's gleeful monologue- "Our family has been invited to Brackley Manor for dinner tomorrow night – I sent word back immediately accepting the offer as soon as I read the letter, of course."

"And what of the proposition?"

"We will discuss the matter after the dinner."

"That's amazing, Father. But please, may I be excused? I was reading one of my journals."

"Oh, of course. Be ready for dinner at seven, I'll send Stevens for you."


	3. Chapter 3

The journey to Devon was much longer than he remembered. It was only late afternoon, so the landscape didn't look quite the same as it had the night of the ball six months ago. But despite the amount of time that had passed, John could still recall the gaunt, dark figure of the mysterious bachelor. Although he hadn't consciously spared a thought for William Holmes, it puzzled him that he could call back the man's exact image and the slight twitch of his mouth and spark of curiosity when they'd locked eyes.

Déjà vu hit as the carriage rolled up the long driveway and turned in at the gate. The dark, double doors of the house were opened by black frock coated footmen and as the Watsons stepped into the former ballroom, John gasped involuntarily. When not full to the brim with swarms of people, the hall seemed like a giant coffin, very grey when not lit with the many sconces, like it once had been.

As if summoned by the sound of the door, at the top of the iron staircase descending to the middle of the ballroom floor appeared Siger Holmes, a man of a formidable height and stature. He was lean but muscular enough. Although his hairline was receding slightly, he had a full head of thick hair, with a thick moustache and beard to match.

"Ah, Samuel," rumbled Holmes, striding easily down the stone slabs to shake John's father's hand firmly. "Let me introduce-" he broke off, suddenly realising the absence of his youngest son. "Sherlock!" he roared, his voice seeming to echo in every corner of the house. John frowned in surprise. Sherlock? Who-

But then, as if he'd been there all along, a familiar, slender figure stepped out from the shadows. A cheekboned, bright eyed figure with a dark mop of curly hair. He shook Samuel's hand firmly, bowed low to kiss Elizabeth's pale one and stopped in front of John. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes," he said with a slight twitch of his lips, extending his palm.

"John Watson," the other replied, taking the hand and gripping it in a handshake.

* * *

><p>The dining room of Brackley Manor was as grey as the entrance hall, well it would have looked that way if the candles impaled on the iron sconces along the wall hadn't been lit. They ate in general silence, punctuated occasionally by the odd remark. John kept glancing at the youngest Holmes opposite him, finding his eyes each time looking back. His gaze was intense but John had to tell his eyes to move away because he was caught up in the golden green and sea blue.<p>

When the last of the plates had been emptied, Siger turned to his son. "Sherlock, John's father and I have to talk business. Why don't you go and amuse yourselves?" In response, the younger man rolled his eyes and pushed his chair back, striding towards the doors and motioning for John to follow.

John found it hard to take in every single detail as he followed the young Holmes along the corridors, he was concentrating more on keeping up. They didn't speak but it somehow felt right to keep it the way it was. However, despite the overall grandeur and the beautiful carvings that rang along the ceilings, nothing prepared him for their final destination.

The doors opened and for what felt like the thousandth time, John's jaw dropped. Floor to ceiling, dark wood glossed shelves perfectly lined with leather-bound books of every size, shape and colour. Four metres up a decorative balcony was built in, creating a walkway around the whole room. Then at the end of the library, John laid his eyes on the most beautiful, ornamental organ he'd ever seen. The pipes were painted gold, with blue rings and floral patterns. The console stood proud under the weight of its decorative burden, with a highly elaborate layout of different pulleys and keyboards.

"The novelty wears off eventually," murmured Sherlock, watching John gape at the domed ceiling that could undoubtedly rival the Sistine Chapel. The sandy-haired man quickly shut his mouth, embarrassed by his own open fascination.

It took John a while to find what he was looking for. He could feel bright eyes resting on him but wasted no time in searching every shelf. It was like a labyrinth, books everywhere he turned. Not that he was complaining. He traced their spines lightly with his index finger, marvelling at the amount of dust that came off with it. Who would waste an opportunity like this!? He'd live in this place if he could. Which reminded him…where were those ever watchful eyes…

"If you're looking for the medical manuscripts, you're at completely the wrong end of the library," came an amused but snobbish voice to his right.

"How did you-"

"Ever since you came in here your intent was clear. That was obvious from the methodical way you looked at the shelves, if you hadn't previously known what you were looking for then you simply would have been meandering. I noticed that your eyes always lingered on the books that bore signs that they could have medical links but you kept moving on so they were clearly not the right thing. Hence, the journals."

"Brilliant."

"That's not what most people say."

"Why, what do most people say?"

"They simply express their wish for me to leave."

* * *

><p>"Yes!" she gushed, gazing ecstatically at the ring being slipping onto her slim finger. "It's beautiful," she sighed, looking lovingly at the handsome face of her new fiancé. They walked back up to the house arm in arm, enjoying the familiarity of the steps their feet had taken so many times before.<p>

As they entered the drawing room, all heads turned to them expectantly. "Mother, cousins," Sarah began, "John just asked me to marry him!"


	4. Chapter 4

The doorbell rang and John sighed. It was already time. He trudged doggedly down the stairs, joining his waiting mother and father in the hallway. Stevens manned his post by the door, looking especially polished with his pressed suit and shined shoes. Mr and Mrs Watson had also made an effort with each of their appearances; Mrs Watson stood nervously in one of her best gowns, leaning slightly on her husband who in turn was wearing a beautiful frock coat which was definitely more for decoration than practicality.

When the door opened and Siger stepped through, closely followed by his taller son, the tension starting gradually lessening and when the formalities had been dealt with, Samuel and Siger departed for the study. Elizabeth retired to the drawing room whilst John lead Sherlock to the library, a fitting choice, he thought. Despite it not being as lavish as the one at Brackley Manor, it had it's own collections, specifically medical journals and books on the natural sciences, which John had grown up learning about.

It was these that Sherlock pounced on, taking a few off to one of the desks placed at intervals along the room. His dark curls fell over his eyes as he leaned forward, engrossed in the equations and scientific theories. John looked over and smiled, almost doing a double take. It was strange but oddly endearing to see such a drastic change of character, the normally haughty and blunt man replaced by a boy hungry for any information he could get his hands on. Suddenly, Sherlock leapt up and brushed past John on his way to the bookshelves. The touch brought the man's hand up to his shoulder, examining the tingling sensation that had lingered there following the tactile sensation.

The darker man turned slowly, a large tome clasped in his pale, nimble fingers. One look at the curious hand on John's unsuspecting shoulder put a puzzled expression on his face. Then, ever so slightly, the corners of his mouth turned upwards before scurrying back to the desk he'd occupied. John threw Sherlock another look before bringing his hand down, letting it drop limply to his side.

* * *

><p>Green eyes. They watch me, I can tell. Curious. No one else watches me like he does. They don't want to know, but he does. I dismiss most people without a second glance but not him. No, I want to savour every glance at him I get. For once, I <em>want <em>to take my time.

His face is unlike any I've seen. Young but lined with hints of old. There is a lot of sorrow in those eyes. It's beautiful though. So_ beautiful_. When I saw him that first time his hair looked flecked with gold in the light radiating from the candelabras. It still looks that way now. He fascinates me in a way no one has before. And when I brushed past him, the way his hand flew to his shoulder…that's the most curious of all.

* * *

><p><em> I can't believe this is happening! I'm planning the best day of my life and I know that everything will be perfect because he's there with me. He looks quiet, sitting in the corner. His eyes are glazed, like he's thinking. He's like that more and more now. But everything will resolve itself, I'm sure.<em>

* * *

><p>The metallic tings of spoons against bowls drove John crazy but he kept his thoughts to himself. On his right, a lovely lady sat talking avidly to his mother whilst his father engaged in conversation with the father of his bride-to-be. At the far end of the table sat three younger girls, tittering amongst themselves like a group of gossiping sparrows. He looked back at Sarah, noticing the way her wispy hair fell onto her face. <em>I can't believe she's mine, <em>he thought. _If only her hair was dark…_he stopped himself right there. He'd been down this road before and he wasn't prepared to do it again, at least not now. He couldn't – he loved Sarah. And that was that.


	5. Chapter 5

The green lined road was all too familiar to John's eyes yet he still saw something new in the Devonshire landscape despite the previous journeys. As the cases tied to the top of the carriage bumped and rattled, John settled back to his thoughts. Back to the previous day when he had been summoned to his father's study where he was joined by his mother. When his father told them both he'd received a letter from Siger Holmes proposing a three day visit to Brackley Manor, John being additionally invited at the specific request of his son.

At the time, the young Watson had thought nothing of this until the time he was packing a battered, black leather suitcase with clothes. The thought of Sherlock actually wanting his company ran round and round in John's head and he found himself oddly pleased. There was definitely something about the Holmes bachelor that fascinated him. Firstly, how was it that said bachelor was still as such? Surely, with a rather illustrious father like Siger Holmes there should have at least been some sort of arranged marriage. Besides, with looks like that, who wouldn't want a piece of William Holmes? Ladies were flocking around him at the ball so John didn't see a problem there.

Secondly, his mysterious and dark demeanour. To be fair, it did fit the exterior but the thing that confused John was that everything he had heard from anyone about the youngest Holmes severely contradicted the interior John had seen and come to know. He was like a child, hungry for knowledge, not a cryptic dark lord as he was perceived by the masses.

A nostalgic feeling descended as they neared the long driveway that lead to Brackley Manor. John straightened up as he looked over to his father seated opposite him. The rounded face of Samuel Watson was jovial as ever, glancing every now and then at the gold watch in his palm, attached to his pocket by a delicate chain of the same colour. It was one of the Watsons' only remaining family heirlooms and John's father was rather protective of it. It had been passed down from generation to generation for almost two centuries and was indeed a work of art, something John had recently come to appreciate. Its face was painted with the sun and moon, a vision in blue and gold.

As they passed the high wrought iron gates of the gothic manor, it was Samuel's turn to gasp. The building itself was as majestic as the last time John had set eyes on it, now only more eerie with daylight, given its stark contrast to its colourful countryside setting. Frock coated footmen rushed out to take their luggage whilst the two Watsons stepped out of their carriage, making their way towards the ever daunting, tall wooden doors. They creaked open and the two men stepped over the threshold, John's heart beating fast.

* * *

><p>The young Watson sighed as he scanned the heaving shelves over and over, searching in a rather frustrated manner. After about five minutes of exasperated sighing however, John was joined by the taller man who had previously been seated in a cushioned green tapestry armchair, absorbed in a large tome detailing the finer points of biochemistry.<p>

"Reading Lavoisier again?" John asked, gesturing towards the book in Sherlock's pale hand.

"Indeed. I have to say, I am rather fascinated with his work on inflammation and respiration."

"Lovely," was his distracted reply.

"Looking for something, John?" The man in question straightened up to face the other standing in front of him.

"Yes in fact, I am. Do you have a copy of the Parisian Chirurgical Journal? I've been dying to read it ever since its publishing last year."

"Ah, Desault…yes I think we do," Sherlock replied, reaching upwards and finally plucking out a leather bound gilt book embossed with its golden title. He handed over the journal carefully, slowly and surreptitiously brushing his hand against John's. Predictably, John's palm recoiled, causing his balance to momentarily waver. In an instant, long pale fingers were gripping his shoulder, holding him upright. So after exchanging a muttered word of thanks with the slender man, John wandered along the shelves, looking for his next selection.

Finally, he saw it. A colourfully covered book with a red spine, emblazoned with the words 'Dee Goong An'. Easing it out, he set it atop the surgical journal and headed for the armchair adjacent to his companion's. Sherlock peered at the Chinese translation novel quizzically, resting the tips of his fingers underneath his chin.

"I didn't know you like crime novels," he remarked, eyebrow raised in seeming approval.

"I've always admired the work of detectives," John replied, "always so cunning. And the intricacy of the cases never fail to intrigue me."

"Ever since I was young, I've loved solving puzzles," Sherlock said, "and real murders are particularly fascinating. All the possible motives, possible suspects but one thing is always the same, John."

"And what's that?"

"Observations, John. Observation is the key."

* * *

><p><em>Just looking is enough. He's still fascinating, the more I learn the more I want to learn. The books he picks from the shelves say aspiring doctor and I have no doubt he's perfectly capable. He's different. Not incompetent or arrogant, always willing to learn and be humble when victory comes.<em>

_ The way he looks at the frames lining the walls. Art lover. He can just look and enjoy whereas I cannot help but scrutinise. The perfect balance. His blonde hair, my dark hair. My tallness, his lack thereof. The perfect contrast. Like pieces of a puzzle slotting into place._

_ I see it in the way he looks at me sometimes. There's conflict in those eyes. Over what is unclear at present…maybe over me. But I shall discount that on grounds of wishful thinking. Because John Watson is engaged. But there's no telling the tricks that Father Time will play…_


End file.
